


shoot down the stars

by akamine_chan



Category: Bandom, Gym Class Heroes, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Bloodplay, Knifeplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2012-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:19:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akamine_chan/pseuds/akamine_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He leaned against the island in the center of the kitchen, still pleasantly buzzed, playing with the big-ass knife that he'd inherited in the most roundabout way. It had started out as part of Gerard Way's notorious collection of sharp things, had travelled across country during Warped '05, followed Pete and Patrick on the <i>Cork Tree</i> tour until it had accidentally found its way into Brendon's backpack during the filming of the video for <i>Sixteen Candles</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	shoot down the stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [doctor_jasley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor_jasley/gifts).



> Written for Eledhwenlin's [Bandom Kinkfest](http://eledhwenlin.dreamwidth.org/697021.html), for doc_jasley's prompt of: Brendon/Travie, knifeplay.
> 
> It's my own fault, really, 'cause I had Tweeted to doc_jasley that if she prompted knifeplay, I would probably write it. You see how I shot myself in the foot?
> 
> Warning: Unnegotiated kink, knifeplay, a bit of blood, and cutting.
> 
> Excellent beta by Andeincascade, as always.
> 
> Title from a song by _Gym Class Heroes_

It had a been a mellow party, for once, and Brendon was feeling pleasantly relaxed. Everyone had gone home, and he was just trying to find the motivation to climb the stairs and fall into bed.

He leaned against the island in the center of the kitchen, still pleasantly buzzed, playing with the big-ass knife that he'd inherited in the most roundabout way. It had started out as part of Gerard Way's notorious collection of sharp things, had travelled across country during Warped '05, followed Pete and Patrick on the _Cork Tree_ tour until it had accidentally found its way into Brendon's backpack during the filming of the video for _Sixteen Candles_.

It mostly lived in his junk drawer, because it was sharp as hell and he didn't trust himself to handle it without cutting his fingers off, but Brendon had pulled it out to slice up some limes earlier for Bill's tequila shots. Right now, he was idly playing with it, twirling it around on the slick surface of the counter, almost mesmerized by the shine and the spin.

"Hey, B, my man."

Brendon jumped a little, the knife clattering as he knocked it away. He looked up, and _up_. Travie, with his hair stuffed into a hat, wearing his dorkiest glasses. "Hey, Travie. I thought everyone had gone home." He wrapped his arm around Travie's waist and squeezed, offering a fistbump.

Travie grinned, slow and wide. "Nah, man. There's a couple of dudes passed out in your living room."

Brendon shrugged. That was about par for the course around here.

"Nice blade." Travie reached for the knife, bouncing it in the palm of his hand, like the was testing the heft of it. "I like knives," he drawled.

A shiver stole down his back and curled hotly in his stomach. He licked his lips and watched Travie as he handled the knife, twirling it between his fingers and across the back of his hand. Brendon had seen Spencer do the same tricks with his drumsticks, showing off, but this was _different_.

Brendon liked knives, too.

He couldn't take his eyes off of Travie's tattooed hand, ink flowing as the knife danced between his fingers. "Learn that in the 'hood?" Brendon's voice was raspy and he cleared his throat.

Travie chuckled. "No, man. No one uses knives anymore. Guns are the weapon of choice." He paused, spinning the knife on the back of his hand.

" _West Side Story_ ," Brendon protested. "The Jets versus the Sharks."

"You're starting to remind me of Gerard," Travie mocked, rolling his eyes. "And not in a good way." He moved closer, towering over Brendon and crowding him against the counter as he wrapped his hand around Brendon's wrist, dark against light. Pulling gently, he stretched Brendon's arm out until it was taut, muscles visible under the almost translucent skin.

"Travie—" Brendon had to take a deep breath, fighting against the sudden tightness in his chest. "What—" His voice died off as Travie laid the flat of the blade against his forearm. "What—" The knife was _sharp_ ; he knew how dangerous it was. . .

"Sshhh." Travie leaned over, his mouth barely touching Brendon's ear. "Watch." Travie scraped the edge of the blade down the skin of Brendon's arm, setting every nerve ending on fire.

"F—fuck," Brendon hissed, feeling a wave of heat roll through him. He squirmed a little as his cock got hard. Travie stroked the blade across Brendon's arm again, a little harder, leaving behind reddened skin and a burn that made Brendon bite his lip to keep from moaning.

"More?"

Brendon was panting a little, face flushed and his nerves knotted up tight with _want_. He never felt twisted and pulled and bent out of shape like this before. He couldn't find the words, so he just nodded.

Flipping the knife, Travie pressed the point against Brendon's pulse. Brendon couldn't help himself; his fist clenched and the muscles in his arm stood out in sharp relief.

"Don't move, little man," Travie murmured, his fingers tightening around Brendon's wrist. "Don't move." Slowly, he drew a thin, white line with the edge of the blade. Brendon couldn't look away as drops of blood, shockingly bright, welled up.

The knife was razor-edged and he didn't feel anything for a long, frozen moment, and then the pain pulled him under, bright and sharp and overwhelming. He trembled, tugging against Travie's grip, trying to get loose, get free because it was too much, he couldn't catch his breath against the pounding beat of his own heart.

"Easy, B. Easy." Travie kept his voice low, almost soothing as he followed the line with his thumb, smearing the blood and waking a flood of pain that slid into pleasure and crested over him. Travie traced the cut again, pressing harder until Brendon couldn't take it anymore.

"Please," he moaned, breathless.

"Please what, little man?" Travie rasped.

Brendon didn't hesitate. "More. Give me more, please, Travie—"

"So polite," Travie teased, holding tight to Brendon's wrist as he made another careful, shallow cut parallel to the first.

Brendon's back arched a little and he leaned heavily against Travie, losing track of himself in the white-hot pulse of sensations. It hurt, and the pain tried to swallow him but it transformed suddenly to a barbed rush of bliss, making him shudder and gasp for air. He drifted for a moment, floating and disconnected, until Travie's voice in his ear gradually came into focus.

"Brendon, come back, c'mon, little man, wake up—" He shivered as Travie's voice whispered against his ear. He blinked owlishly at Travie. "C'mon, B, let's get you cleaned up."

He let himself be guided into the bathroom, where Travie carefully washed and cleaned the cuts before wrapping his arm with gauze and tape. That was how Brendon felt, kind of wrapped in warmth and fuzzy from the endorphins. His armed throbbed; he knew when he woke up it'd hurt, but right now he didn't fucking care.

"Here, take these." Travie made him take some aspirin and drink a glass of water before herding him upstairs, toward bed. Travie's hand was huge against Brendon's waist, making him feel protected and cared for as climbed into bed. Travie covered him with the blankets and he tried to smile at Travie, but he was asleep the minute his head touched the pillow.

-fin-


End file.
